


Out of Paradise

by whimsicule



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Berlin (City), Historical Accuracy, Historical References, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-WWI, References to Drugs, Roaring 20s, Weimar Republic, historical crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 20:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17690231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicule/pseuds/whimsicule
Summary: “we’ll see about that,” the older inspector insists, puffing out strong smelling smoke. “mark my words, bursche. all cities have their own hell. but you can’t prepare for how much this place will burn you.”or: scotland yard inspector styles travels to berlin in the winter of 1924, chasing defector liam payne and a suspected network of communist radicals. faced with open hostility from his german counterparts, it is far too easy to fall into the city’s nefarious nightlife and give in to a part of himself he’d vowed to lock away forever.





	Out of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> this story has been sitting in my head for so long it finally started forcing its way out. historical stories are my favourite thing and i absolutely delight in doing all the research required to ensure it's as historically accurate as possible. 
> 
> like the summary says, this fic starts in the winter of 1924, meaning this is post-WWI, post Hitler's unsuccessful putsch in Munich but pre-Nazi Germany. However, I feel it's necessary to stress that references to WWI, the national socialists and other political parties and events will be made as to not gloss over what was happening in Germany and particularly Berlin during this time (if you want to know more about the Weimar Republic, [this](https://www.britannica.com/place/Weimar-Republic#ref339527) is a good starting point. this story will also feature both original characters as well as historical figures. 
> 
> the story, unusual for me but following aristotle's tragic plot structure, is divided into three parts: the beginning, the middle, and the end. and here is where i need to give you all a warning. there is a tragic plot structure because here lies tragedy and no happy ending. i am pretty sure this will scare a lot of people off, but i do hope that some remain to give this story a chance. and i do hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> title is from "the lavender song", queer 1920!berlin's anthem. give it a listen, it's fab.
> 
> as always, please feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](https://www.whimsicule.tumblr.com) or reblog the [fic post](http://whimsicule.tumblr.com/post/182666287699/out-of-paradise-by-whimsicule-pairing-harry).
> 
> enjoy! x
> 
> p.s.: all remaining errors are my own.
> 
> disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

 

 

I. Beginning

 

“You are crazy, my child. You must go to Berlin.”

 _—_ _Franz von Suppé, 1800_

 

***

  

One of the things nobody cared to mention to him – and something he hadn’t even thought of, to be fair – is that Berlin is a cold place. It’s a different cold than what he is used to. London is a drizzly grey, a near permanent dampness clinging to every surface even when it’s supposedly dry. London is harsh winds and narrow streets and people bustling around on them and in seemingly every crevice. It’s sombre men in dark, stiff suits, their wives hurrying along past them with the heels of their shoes clacking on cobbles, clutching their purses. 

Berlin, at first glance, had seemed much of the same and it’s only now that his trained eye has started to really look for it, has given into his habit to search out every possible detail, that he realises that this capital city is vastly different from any place he’s ever been. It’s just as grey as London, with the sky overcast and the men he sees hurrying around Alexanderplatz this early in the morning are similarly dressed to the ones he knows from back home. 

But the cold – it creeps into his too-thin leather lace-ups and up his legs, and the gabardine overcoat he’d hastily thrown on before leaving the small room he’s rented in a guesthouse in Charlottenburg isn’t enough to shield him from the icy winds that blow into the city from the East. With a gloved hand, he grips the brim of his hat and adjusts it on his head while he waits for his companion to get out of the car. He hears the door slam, followed by leisurely steps and takes a moment to look up at the large, reddish building that contains Berlin’s police headquarters. 

“Frozen to the spot, Junge?” Inspector Behrens calls out to him in heavily accented English before walking into the lobby without another glance back. 

Harry sighs and, suppressing a shiver, wills his stiff limbs to move quickly so he can catch up to the German. 

They’ve been following the same routine for a week now, since he arrived in the capital city of Germany by order of Scotland Yard, with him keeping his head down while they head to the Commissioner’s office to update him on an investigation that is still – frustratingly – void of any new clues or progress. 

Commissioner Zörgiebel, a tall man with a shockingly white moustache and contrasting black eyebrows, spends a solid ten minutes barking orders at Behrens. Harry can only pick out a few words here and there. His German is abysmal, which should have automatically disqualified him from this particular job, but unsurprisingly, there hadn’t been anyone with his knowledge of the case who knew how to even say _Bitte_ and _Danke_ without an accent. 

When the Commissioner is done yelling, he sends them on their way, not keen to be in the presence of an Englishman any longer than necessary. He wears his hostility on his sleeves, displeased to have been burdened with a foreigner in his city by people in higher positions. 

Back in Behrens’ office, Harry sinks into the rather uncomfortable chair in front of his makeshift desk and takes off his hat. He runs his still cold fingers through his hair, tugs at a curl that has come loose behind his ear and smooths it back into place. Behrens, a man twice his age, with a prominent belly and disconcertingly sharp eyes, remains on his feet in the middle of the room. 

“Did he say anything different from three days ago?” Harry asks after a few moments of tense silence. 

Behrens lets out a huff and puts his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Just to get our shit together. He doesn’t want _verdammte_ Bolsheviks planning coups under his nose. Doesn’t care we have no new leads.” 

“I take it nothing came of that contact of yours who mentioned secret KPD[i] meetings in Wedding?” 

“No, nothing _came of it_ ,” Behrens mocks with a bad impression of Harry’s accent before heading over to his own desk and letting himself fall into the chair that groans as a result of his heavy weight. He fumbles around in his coat for another handful of seconds before he finds his cigarettes and lights one up (a few days ago he would have asked Harry if he wanted one, but fortunately he’s understood by now that Harry doesn’t smoke), then allows himself the time to smoke about half of it before speaking up again. 

“Think we need to try a new angle with this one,” he grumbles, leaning back. Behrens unbuttons his jacket with his left hand, revealing a faded coffee stain on the otherwise crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Who did your guy socialise with back home?” 

“Nobody of significance,” Harry is quick to reply, “at least not anyone who could have ties to communists on the continent.” 

Of this, Harry is very much certain. In fact, before something had apparently snapped inside of him and he’d stolen sensitive documents and a surprisingly large amount of explosives, Liam Payne had been a regular run-of-the-mill Tory-voting judicial clerk from a relatively wealthy middle-class family. He’d been born and raised in the West Midlands, attending public school and afterwards the University of Birmingham, where he had studied law. Graduating top of his class, he’d found employment in London and quickly climbed up the career ladder. 

From what Harry could gather from Payne’s former co-workers and neighbours, he was a nice if a bit quiet character who’d mostly kept to himself and travelled back north to visit his family whenever he could. They described him as helpful, organised and put together, which did not fit the profile of a communist terrorist whatsoever. Harry struggled understanding how someone like Payne could have even come into contact with the kind of radicals he had eventually fled to Berlin with according to their intel. 

Their paths should have never crossed. And even if they had, by accident somehow, there was no evidence that Payne should have been responsive to their treacherous plans. Not enough to upend his entire life and commit a series of crimes that will get him hanged if they catch him. Scotland Yard had torn his flat apart to search for clues, and the only thing they found that was out of the ordinary was a German edition of _The Communist Manifesto,_ and in it a slip of paper with a Cyrillic name and an address in Berlin. 

Which is why Harry has found himself in this stuffy office with a moody German Inspector who chain-smokes and has an obvious dislike for anything and anyone British, who only tolerates and works with Harry because this is an international security risk that could threaten the peace they paid so much for. 

“Maybe a girl? Or not,” Behrens adds. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was both a communist and – you know. ‘N warmer Bruder.”[ii] 

He chuckles, and even though Harry doesn’t know the words…he knows that tone. He knows exactly what’s implied. And it makes something hot shoot up his spine while he feels his hands go cold and clammy. To mask his discomfort, Harry gets to his feet quickly and rounds his desk, walks over to the large map of Berlin that’s mounted to the wall. 

The police headquarters are marked in red, and so is the Reichstag and Stadtschloss[iii]. Harry’s eyes need a moment to find the address they’d found in Payne’s flat, which turned out to be a nondescript building in the North West of Berlin, near Schillerpark, but the flat had been abandoned, a thick layer of dust signalling that nobody had been there for a while. Other residents said it used to belong to a widow who’d lost her husband in the war. She’d left shortly after, and their only child who – at least according to gossip – had inherited it lived and worked abroad, but didn’t have the heart to sell it. 

They haven’t been able to confirm the story, so now there is a police officer stationed there to monitor the building for any suspicious activity. 

“He’s your age, Styles, huh?” Behrens asks, still reclining in his chair, having lit a second cigarette. “If you were a new commie in a new city, what would you be up to?” 

It’s not a question Harry has any sort of answer to. He doesn’t know what he’d do in Berlin, especially whilst being involved in illegal activities. Payne can’t just stroll around Friedrichstraße and go about his business like any other person. His picture has been distributed among police stations, so he is most likely reliant on others to run even the most basic errands. 

“I’d be building a network,” is what he decides to say in the end. “If I didn’t already have one, that is. Likeminded people who are loyal, believe in the same cause, but most importantly know the in-and-outs of this city. I wouldn’t want to risk getting caught. So,” Harry concludes, “I would need to attach myself to people who know how Berlin operates.” He pauses, eyes aimlessly following the names of streets he can hardly pronounce on the map. Then he tears his gaze away from the map and faces his temporary partner. “I’m sure you know who these people are.” 

Behrens assesses him openly, eyes slightly narrower and head at a mild angle. “Let me get this right. You want to go and ask around if anyone’s seen Payne, or knows him? Don’t you think that he’ll get spooked?” 

“We’d have to be careful,” Harry replies. “I’m sure you have plenty of informants you can trust to be…discreet.” 

It isn’t hard to tell that Behrens is decidedly unhappy with his role in Harry’s plan, but he also doesn’t offer up any other plan of action that will move their search for Payne and his comrades along. 

“I suppose I do,” he offers after a beat, reaching for his third cigarette. He takes his time to light it up, the glimmering tip of it a sudden burst of colour in otherwise monotone surroundings. “Not sure you’ll find them…adequate.” 

“If they have information, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he throws back rather irritably. He may not have been to Berlin before, but he’s spent a number of years in London after working for the Cheshire Constabulary and the Manchester City Police. He’s very much familiar with large cities and whatever goes on in their underground societies. But Behrens either hasn’t spent much time looking at his file, or he simply doesn’t care. 

“We’ll see about that,” the older Inspector insists, puffing out strongly smelling smoke. “But mark my words, _Bursche_. All cities have their own hell. But you can’t prepare for how much this place will burn you. If you’re not careful.” 

He says it with a mixture of fascinated disgust and pride, as if he were simultaneously appalled and inspired by the city he calls his home. And unlike Behrens, Harry has studied his file; knows that the man was born and raised in Pankow, just north of Berlin’s more attractive centre, his mother a headmaster’s daughter and his father a baker. Kurt Friedrich Behrens had attended the _Realgymnasium **[iv]**_ his grandfather had run and gone to the Charité[v] to study legal medicine, joining the university after he had finished to pursue his doctorate and assist in research. But he had quit before finishing and – for a reason that wasn’t written down in his file – joined the police force, and then the army when the war had broken out. 

So Harry knows that Behrens’ appearance is treacherous, that the man is far cleverer and far more shrewd than he seems at first glance, and that Harry should always approach him with caution. He can’t discount that Behrens has his own agenda in this, that he might be very willing to discredit Harry and therefore his right to be a part of the investigation. Because Harry also knows when he hears a threat. 

He just doesn’t have a choice but accept Behrens’ taunts if he wants his help finding Payne. 

“I don’t scare easily,” Harry say, but Behrens only responds with a wry smile and another long drag of his cigarette. 

They fall back into silence, and it isn’t long before Behrens’ pale, wide-eyed assistant rushes in with a stack of papers that need his attention. Harry resists the urge to look over his shoulder, curious as to what other cases Behrens has been working on. 

Instead, he puts his hands into the pockets of his slacks and saunters over to the tall windows facing Alexanderplatz. The rapid and accented German Behrens and his assistant converse in washes over him as his eyes follow the people hurrying around the square, starting their day. 

Most are in drab colours; dark overcoats and hats, seamlessly blending in with the cold stone. But here and there – and that is also different from London – a burst of colour will cut through all the grey. There’s a woman in a burgundy coat and a lime green cloche hat covering her bleached curls, a floral silk scarf billowing around her form. A mother and her daughter in matching ink blue capes and canary yellow berets. A young gentleman, newspaper rolled up under his arm that’s clad in emerald green wool, head bowed to listen to his companion who is bundled up in a luxurious fur that contrasts beautifully with her rose-coloured trousers, legs so wide that they look like a long skirt at first glance. 

Harry can probably count the number of times he’s seen a woman wearing trouserson one hand, most of which happened in the last few days; young ladies dressed like men, with their hair cropped short, walking with purpose and their heads held high. For a brief moment, he thinks of his sister and how she had carried herself before marriage, before having children, before settling into a life that was – 

No, not _beneath_ her. But even as children his sister would read books their father thought improper, talk about getting an education that went beyond what was considered appropriate for a young woman, perhaps even travel for a while. A sudden image pops into Harry’s mind; Gemma with short, bleached hair and red lips, wearing colourful silk trousers and a patterned coal, laughing despite the cold wind reddening her cheeks. 

It’s almost jarring, and Harry has to shake his head minimally to force the vision out of it. Gemma is content with her life, loves her children. But, Harry guesses, she would also love a beautiful silk scarf as a souvenir. 

The rest of the morning goes by slowly. Harry busies himself reading over Payne’s files, looking for anything he might have missed the first hundreds of times he has poured over those pages. He underlines a few details that don’t particularly need underlining or are of any more importance than others, and after a while, the words start blurring on the pages and he feels a familiar pressure building in his skull, pushing against his eyes. 

When lunchtime rolls around, he and Behrens head down along Landsberger Straße and end up sitting down in one of the busier cafés that line every street around here, murmur of the crowd serving to muffle their own conversation; serving to obscure the fact that they’re speaking English. 

“You have to learn German, Styles,” Behrens reminds him again, dipping his spoon into a bowl of stew. Harry’s stomach has been upset since his arrival, but he needs something to get through the day. The strong, bitter coffee the waiter put in front of him only a few minutes ago is slowly going cold, and Harry only sips at it reluctantly, longing for a decent cup of Earl Grey with a hint of lemon. And his mother’s roast chicken. 

“I’ll try to fit it into my schedule,” Harry placates him, not adding that German may very well be impossible to learn for a non-native speaker. The language confuses him, seems overly and unnecessary complex, and above all, Harry’s priorities simply lie elsewhere. He can get by without it for now. 

“Good,” Behrens rumbles. There’s a bit of onion stuck to his chin and he grabs a napkin to dab at it, but it remains glued to his skin. “I’m not your translator.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Behrens raises his eyebrows, puts his spoon down and pushes his half-empty bowl to the side. Leaning onto his elbows, he interlaces his chubby fingers and narrows his eyes. “You should go home,” he tells Harry after a moment. “Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long night.” 

With that, he gets to his feet, digs around in his pockets for a couple of coins he throws onto the table top. “We meet at ten o’clock, Friedrichstraße. Don’t be late,” Behrens adds, then leaves the café without another glance back, quickly disappearing from view. 

Harry lets out a long breath and brings up his left hand to rub at his temple. Behrens is probably only trying to be kind and not condescending, but Harry still feels belittled. Even though he is used to it, the youngest member of the team with Scotland Yard as well, it isn’t something he likes to be confronted with. 

He finishes his coffee in a daze, unintentionally zoning out and letting the hustle and bustle of the crowd wash over him. Once again, he can’t pick up any of the conversations happening around him, but for once Harry actually quite appreciates it. It’s…less distracting, only a hum in the background, and the café itself is not interesting enough to divert his attention either. 

Ten days ago, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine himself sitting in a café in Germany’s capital city and it makes him wonder if Payne had a similar thought before he had to up and flee the country he betrayed. They still don’t know about all the circumstances surrounding his escape, and it’s been over a week since he was spotted crossing the German border, so he could have left Berlin by now already. 

But something tells Harry that Payne is still here. He is absolutely sure that Payne is somewhere in Berlin and it makes Harry’s gaze wander around, trying to imagine where Payne might be at this exact moment in time; what he could be up to, who he could be with. If he has any idea how many people are looking for him. 

Harry pays for his coffee with the coins that still feel foreign in his palm and steps outside, flipping his collar up against the icy wind that blows through the street with far too much force. He hails a cab and is about to step into the black vehicle when his neck starts to prickle, forcing him to a sudden halt. 

With the handle of the cab’s door still firmly in his grip, Harry looks around, but nothing and nobody catches his eye, no face is angled towards him, at least not obviously so. But there are too many windows, to many nooks and hidden spots he isn’t familiar with, forcing him to give up before he can confirm this nagging suspicion that somewhere in this faceless crowd, someone is watching him.

 

 

The little guesthouse, or rather guest _flat_ , he stays at is a quaint place run by a middle-aged widow, just off Kantstraße. The room he is renting has parquet floor, high ceilings, minimal but tasteful décor and two French windows that look out into an inner courtyard that – as Harry now knows – is typical for Berlin. 

Frau Lüttger is a fine host, if a little curious, perhaps bored without a husband or family to dote on. The flat she owns has another two bedrooms besides the one Harry is staying in, one occupied by his landlady, the other rented to someone Harry hasn’t even caught of glimpse of yet. Frau Lüttger mentioned him being a musician, working in one of the many clubs in the city centre, meaning that he is most likely operating on a schedule opposite to Harry’s. 

Frau Lüttger, a tall and thin woman with a plain but pleasant face, is in the kitchen when Harry gets in, washing dishes from what appears to be have been a modest lunch. A big case, holding perhaps a cello or a string bass, is leaning against the hallway wall, hiding the person sitting at the kitchen table with whom Frau Lüttger apparently shared a meal. Harry can see brown, polished shoes from where he’s standing, the folded hem of grey slacks over thick, woollen socks. 

“Oh, Herr Styles!” his landlady exclaims, grabbing a dishtowel to dry her hands. “So früh habe ich gar nicht mit Ihnen gerechnet.”[vi] 

Harry pauses. He can’t understand a word, but judging from her flustered expression, it’s not too difficult to deduct that she wasn’t expecting him back. 

“Möchten Sie noch etwas Suppe zu Mittag?”[vii] She points to a steaming pot on the stove, apparently offering him soup for lunch, if he understands correctly. 

“Nein, danke,” he replies with two of the handful of German words he has mastered thus far. He doesn’t know what else to say to her, hopes to just make a quick escape to his room, when the man in the kitchen leans forward, coming into view. He has an open, friendly face, blue eyes contrasting with a charcoal jumper. Smiling, he gets up and is in front of Harry with a few quick strides, hand stretching out to greet him.

“Nice to finally meet ya,” he says and – well. Harry is pretty sure the surprise shows on his face, because he winks and adds, “Irish, born and raised. Niall Horan, at your service, Mister…Styles, was it?” 

Harry takes his offered hand. “Yes, Styles. Harry Styles. Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Horan.” 

Horan’s handshake is warm and firm, but brief. His smile stays. “Can’t say I was expecting another Brit to take the spare room,” he tells Harry as he moves his arm back and gets comfortable again, slouching a little in his chair as Frau Lüttger redirects her attention to the dishes. “What brings you to Berlin, Mr. Styles? Business…or pleasure?” 

The word _pleasure_ rolls off of his lips in a way that makes Harry’s neck feel hot, and he hopes that the flush doesn’t show on his face. He isn’t ignorant to what is being said about Berlin elsewhere. The city of sinners. What Harry would like to be ignorant to is what Horan is thinking when he says it. 

The answer, of course, is a simple one, but not one that Harry likes to share with anyone. His work demands a certain kind of discretion. 

“Business,” he replies curtly and leaves it at that and adds, “Frau Lüttger mentioned you were a musician?”, to change the direction of their conversation. 

“That I am,” Horan says and nods towards the case leaning in the hallway. “I play double bass in a couple of bands, couple of clubs. Only wanted to stay the summer, then go to Paris, but…this place sucks you in, and there’s plenty of work. And now poor Frau Lüttger can’t get rid of me.” 

Hearing her name, their landlady turns, suds covering her hands and forearms and raising her brows at Horan. “Was erzählen Sie schon wieder, Herr Horan?” 

Horan sends her a charming grin. “Nur dass Sie eine so großartige Köchin sind, dass Sie mich nicht mehr loswerden können.“ 

He speaks fluently, and his accent is soft, only struggling a little with the r’s. Harry struggles to believe that he’s only been in Germany for about half a year, but perhaps he’s been here before, or somewhere else in the country. It would probably serve him better not to immediately distrust everyone he meets. 

In the meanwhile, Frau Lüttger, thoroughly charmed, takes a dishtowel to half-heartedly swat at Horan, but Harry can see colouring in her cheeks. “Ach, die olle Suppe,” she says and quickly wipes the table. “Und nun raus mit Ihnen, ich hab zu tun.”[viii] 

Harry, frustratingly so, has once again only picked up a word here and there, but not nearly enough to understand the content of their brief conversation, but Horan stands up and approaches him with an easy tilt to his head. 

“She wants us out of the kitchen,” he explains with a shrug, puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and shuffles them out into the hallway. Horan is closer now, and Harry gets a whiff of – no, he wouldn’t call it cologne. But there is a citrus-y scent clinging to him, like a freshly peeled orange. God knows where one might find an orange in Berlin this time of year. 

“How about a drink in my room?” Horan suggests as Frau Lüttger putters on behind him. “No offence, Styles. But you look like you need one.”

 

 

Horan’s room has the same layout as his own, which is not surprising, and neither is the fact that it looks far more lived in. Three large trunks are piled on top of one another in the far right corner, next to the windows, a pile of newspapers on top, as well as a few tin jars in various sizes. The bed is unmade, a dressing gown mixed in with the throw and duvet. Two books are lying on the nightstand next to the small lamp, joined by an ashtray, a silver cigarette case, a box of matches. 

Another detail that sets this room apart from Harry’s is the tall music stand holding pages upon pages of sheet music. 

Harry steps inside, shuts the door behind him, elbow brushing against a smart black coat and a tuxedo jacket that are dangling from a hat stand right beside it. Horan is bustling around, hastily clearing a pile of clothes from a chair and dragging it over to the window before grabbing the stool that’s paired with a mirrored dresser. 

Harry’s eyes follow the movement, dance over the items that are assembled there; a bottle of cologne, some pomade, a wristwatch and two pairs of cufflinks. Another cigarette case, a few ash crumbs, an empty cup.

“I’ve got this bottle of Tullamore Dew,” Horan calls out to him as he bends down and starts rummaging through apparently another trunk that he pulls out from underneath the bed. “My da would roll over in his grave if I shared this with a Kraut, so I’ve been saving it.” 

He straightens up with a grin and proudly brandishes a bottle and two tumblers. 

“Do you think this is an appropriate occasion?” Harry asks him. He may be very far from being an expert, but even he can tell that this is most likely a rather expensive bottle of whiskey. It’s a bottle his father would have brought out at Christmas, not on a cold afternoon with a total stranger. 

“Absolutely,” Horan clearly disagrees and points to the chair, silently offering Harry a seat. “If we’re living in such close quarters, we should become friends. And what better way than to share some ancient, Irish Single Malt whiskey?” 

He’s an odd fellow, Harry thinks as he crosses the room and sits down, taking the glass and sniffing at the amber liquid. When Horan lowers himself onto the stool opposite him, he does so with most of his weight on one leg, and a grimace flashing over his face. It makes Harry pause. There’s something wrong with Horan’s right leg, and Harry has seen plenty of men return from war with crutches, but Horan could be just too young to have fought in the war. 

But he notices Harry looking. 

“Hurt my knee when I was little,” he explains, tapping it lightly. “I was chasing my brother, climbed over a fence and slipped. One of the planks went right through it, shattered my kneecap. Never healed right.” 

Harry winces. “That sounds painful.” 

“Hardly remember it,” Horan waves it off and lifts his glass. “Now, what shall we drink to? Berlin? New friends? A brief and mellow winter?” 

Not able to stop a smile from spreading, Harry says, “Don’t take it personal, Mr. Horan, but for now, I think I have to drink to a brief and mellow winter.” 

“To that, then.” Horan lifts his glass and clinks it against Harry’s. “May we not freeze our arses off,” then he drinks. 

Harry only takes a small sip. He hasn’t eaten much lately and he isn’t a heavy drinker. Considering he still has work to do later this evening, he’d rather not be inebriated when he goes to meet Behrens at the Friedrichstraße station. But Horan nearly empties his glass in one go, tilts his head back, sighing and seemingly savouring the taste of home. 

“Your German is very good,” he finds himself saying after watching Horan empty his glass. 

Horan doesn’t say anything to that immediately, which is fine, Harry guesses, since it wasn’t really a question. He takes his time to pour himself another drink, then gets up and walks over to the nightstand with a slight limp Harry hadn’t noticed before, retrieving ashtray, cigarette case and matches, all in one hand. 

“Cigarette?” he offers, and Harry – as always – politely declines. Horan lights his, and opens the window just a smidgeon, letting in bitingly cold air that is like a shock to Harry’s system. 

“Can’t sleep if the room smells of smoke,” Horan says and leans his body against the wall, stares out into the grey city that lies outside. Harry has some more whiskey, relishes how it warms him from the inside even if it does burn in his throat a little. “I left Dublin a few years ago. Went to Edinburgh, then London, then Paris and Lyon and Geneva and Vienna. Stayed in Austria for a while and played in a band where nobody spoke English, so I had to learn. Then I went on to Munich, Dresden, Hamburg and then finally Berlin.” 

He blows out smoke, watches as it intermingles with the icy air clawing its way inside. “I make a habit of making friends with locals,” Horan continues after a beat, his gaze shifting back onto Harry. “Doesn’t mean it’s not nice to fall back into English once in a while.” 

He lifts his glass in another silent toast, lips twitching when Harry reciprocates.

“It’s still rather impressive,” Harry tells him honestly, thinking about the foreign pronunciation, the sharp consonants, the words his tongue can’t work itself around. “I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of it.” 

Horan hums around another mouthful of whiskey. “Will you be staying in Berlin long enough to need it?” 

It’s a clever question, harmless at first glance but revealing rather a lot. Harry wouldn’t be answering it honestly even if he had an answer to give, but the truth is that he can’t know how long he’ll be in Berlin. Payne might turn up on their radar tonight, or stay hidden for six months or even a year. Naturally, Harry would prefer it to be the former. 

 “I might,” he ends up saying. “It depends.” 

“On business?” Horan asks, eyes wide with the underlying question he is _not_ asking. 

Harry lifts his glass, smiles, but doesn’t answer. 

 

  

He leaves Horan’s room shortly after with the intention to get some sleep before meeting Behrens, but Harry only tosses and turns, twisting the sheets around his restless body as he hears Frau Lüttger shuffling around the flat, tidying up and cleaning. His heart is hammering uncomfortably, adrenaline whirling around his body and refusing to leave it even for a moment, the novelty, stress and uncertainty of this situation keeping it there. The strong coffee he had for lunch probably hasn’t helped. 

So Harry sits up in bed, Payne’s file spread out around him as the sun slowly disappears behind the roofs of Charlottenburg. It’s futile, he knows, to hope that some detail that he missed will jump out at him and prove to be the solution to this entire dilemma. 

He declines Frau Lüttger’s invitation to have dinner in the kitchen and instead splashes some cold water in his face before taking out his only unworn suit. It’s not as warm as the others, but it looks more formal, more appropriate, Harry guesses, for what they’re doing tonight. He buttons up a clean, white shirt before tying his tie and pulling on slacks and waistcoat. Quickly running a handkerchief over his shoes to give them a quick polish, Harry catches his reflecting in the mirror when he straightens up again. 

No wonder Horan offered him a drink. He really does look like he’s about to keel over, cheekbones more prominent than usual and dark circles under his tired eyes. It’s been a while since he’s had a night of uninterrupted sleep. With a sigh, Harry combs his hair back and puts on his hat. With his suit jacket and herringbone coat added, he looks every bit the Scotland Yard inspector who is on the fast track to becoming the country’s youngest superintendent. If this case does not go belly-up, that is. His career won’t be the same if he fails to apprehend Payne and his co-conspirators. Commissioner Horwood hadn’t said so explicitly, but it was heavily implied in their last briefing before Harry had left London for Berlin. 

The walk to Savignyplatz is, fortunately, not very long, so despite another noticeable drop in temperature, he manages to stop his teeth from clattering until he steps into the mostly empty train carriage that will take him to Friedrichstraße in approximately thirty minutes. 

Harry finds a seat and looks out the window and tries to familiarise himself with the city as he is transported through it. Even in the dark he can make out the large Reichstag, the seat of the new Republic’s parliament, just on the edge of the river Spree. And further along, a large black patch stamped into the illuminated cityscape – Tiergarten; a park that reminds Harry of Hyde Park. It stretches all the way from the Zoologischer Garten to Brandenburg Gate, split in half by a wide street that, only a few years ago, Kaiser Wilhelm would have ridden down on horseback, followed by a league of generals and soldiers. 

He has to keep reminding himself that this country has only known democracy for a few years; it is a young Republic, and a fragile one, vulnerable to different forces pulling it into different directions, undoubtedly one of the reasons the Bolsheviks are trying to expand their influence by building a network in Berlin, by placing apparent double-agents such as Payne in the city to stir up trouble, possibly recruit more people to their cause. 

The few people who share the carriage with him don’t pay him any mind, looking equally tired and haggard, coat collars turned up, hats pulled low to cover their faces. At Gleisdreieck, the doors slide open again, bringing in the cold and a trio of young people whose laughter sends a shockwave through the train, making people look up with grim expressions. 

Harry can’t but look at them; two women and a man, all roughly the same height, chatting and giggling amongst themselves, clearly drunk, trying to muffle the noise with their bare hands, reddened from the cold. One of the women has darker skin, hair short like a boy’s, a bright pink hat dangling from her fingers, and long rows of pearls dangling from her neck. The other is pale and blonde, hair in artful water waves and lips so dark they look almost black. She’s wearing an expensive looking fur cape, a silk dress and stockings, and her delicate fingers are holding onto the arm of the third companion. 

At first, Harry can’t see his face, both women leaning close to whisper to him, only glimpses at artfully coiffed hair and a narrow frame in slacks, shirt and overcoat. Then he shifts, and Harry drinks in his profile, arched brows and small nose, lashes so long they draw shadows on his cheeks and – 

He turns, catches Harry’s gaze, eyes so shockingly blue and clear that he – he just freezes. Freezes, and can’t seem to look away. But the young man doesn’t avert his gaze either, blinking once, twice before closing his previously parted lips that shimmer even in the dim light of the carriage. 

He smiles. 

Harry’s face heats up. His mouth is dry with – God, panic, he thinks, that this man can see it written in his eyes, can tell that he…that he – 

His thoughts cut off abruptly as the two women notice that their friend is not paying attention to them anymore, and they follow his gaze, follow it to Harry who still can’t avert his eyes. They share a smirk and elbow the man, mutter something to him that makes him roll his eyes briefly before returning his attention to Harry. 

For a split second, Harry hopes and is equally terrified that he’s going to walk over to him, but before anything of the likes can happen, the train comes to a halt at the next stop. The doors slide open, and the two women leave the carriage, calling out to their friend who hesitates. 

“Komm schon, Loulou! Wir kommen zu spät.“[ix] 

It takes another second, then he moves, leaves the train with another glance over his shoulder. As soon as he has left Harry’s sight, Harry feels a jolt course through his body, and he is on his feet and out the door only a moment later without properly registering it. He steps onto the platform, the doors sliding shut behind him, lamps flickering and drawing out shadows, and Harry can’t see him anymore. All that’s left is the echo of their laughter rising to the roof. 

Harry’s eyes fall onto a sign that says _Friedrichstraße_ , stays still and listens to their voices until they begin to fade.

  

 

Behrens is in the same rumpled suit from this morning, waiting for him under a streetlamp, smoking away, staring solemnly ahead where people in small groups huddle together, moving quickly over the cobbled street. He doesn’t greet Harry, only rumbles a bit and tosses his cigarette to the side before setting off without checking whether Harry is following him. 

It makes Harry dread the next couple of hours, but he swallows it down, schools his expression into a neutral façade and follows his partner down the street, north towards a bridge that crosses the Spree. The road is wet and glossy like the river, reflecting the lights coming from the lamps and windows of bars and restaurants all along it. 

“Where are we going?” he asks Behrens as they cross the river. 

Behrens still refuses to look at him, back curled, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “To your first revue show, Styles,” he grumbles. “Hope you’re ready for it.” 

He leads them to a large, almost palatial building not too far away. There is a small crowd waiting outside, in fancy coats and heels and feathers attached to their heads. Behrens walks past them, Harry struggling to keep up with him, and brandishes his badge once he gets to the main doors. The portier nods curtly, and lets them inside without a fuss, but Harry can feel how his gaze lingers on them. 

The foyer is luxurious, red carpet and velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers. Waiters in white shirts, waistcoats and bowties carry tall flutes of champagne to the small clusters of people still waiting and chatting idly to each other. Behrens and he draw a bit of attention as they ascend the shallow stairs to the large winged doors that apparently lead into the main room of this venue. 

A ticket clerk is positioned behind a tall desk, her hair artfully done up, eyes bordered by heavy, black kohl. The dress she is wearing accentuates her bosom and judging by the way she’s angling her body, she very much knows it. She smiles when she sees Behrens and immediately moves to make space beside her, which causes Harry to pause in confusion. Evidently, this lady is one of the inspector’s informants, or at least acquaintances. 

Behrens gets out a folded piece of paper form the inside pocket of his coat and lays it down on the desk in front of her. Harry assumes it to be a copy of Payne’s passport photograph, and he watches her reaction for any clue that might give away that she’s telling the truth or hiding it. But her face remains professionally blank, and she shakes her head, leaving Behrens with a few parting words that he acknowledges with a nod.

“She’s not seen him,” his partner tells him when he sidles up to Harry again, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder to steer him towards the doors. “But she’s promised to keep an eye out.” 

“How often does she keep her promises?” Harry asks as he is being ushered through the doors, but even if Behrens answers him, he can’t hear it, because noise washes over him like a wave. 

Music, so loud it makes Harry flinch, attacks his ears as a barrage of other impressions assaults his senses. It’s bright, colourful, a jarring contrast to the monochrome world that lies outside these doors; a world that’s also stiff, and rigid, and that has seemingly come here tonight to since, and dance, and burst into life. 

Harry barely knows where to look first. At the ceiling glimmering with light that shines down onto rows upon rows of balconies filled with small, round tables, around which an whole assortment of people are assembled, talking over champagne and other drinks, cigarette smoke whirling up between them. At the dance floor in the middle where pairs spin and spin, heavily beaded and embroidered dresses catching the glow and multiplying it until their wearers look like magical fairies, enchanting their opposites. At the stage where, in front of a large band playing fast-paced jazz, a group of dancers are swinging their legs, clad in nothing but lace knickers and feather crowns. 

There’s a lot of – skin, on show, and Harry’s face is flaming, he knows it, too many bare chests on show, certainly more than he’s seen in his life. Behrens is loving this, he’s sure, making the stiff Brit feel uncomfortable and he’s proven correct when said partner lets out a guttural laugh. 

With a squeeze to Harry’s shoulder, he says, “Welcome to Berlin,” and descends the staircase. 

Harry follows him, heart beating in his throat, dodging waiters and people rushing around between tables and the dancefloor. “Behrens,” he urges, “do you really think this is a place Payne would go?” 

“If he wants to see some tits, probably,” Behrens replies crassly and – Jesus Christ, Harry never thought of himself as a prude, but…but he’s starting to realise that’s because he’s spent the last couple of years – and most of his adolescence, if he’s honest – avoiding any subject related to…sexual matters. 

“And what if he doesn’t?” 

It makes Behrens pause and turn around, and for the first time this night, he actually looks Harry in the eye. “Maybe we should save those kind of clubs for another night, eh Bursche? You look spooked enough already.” He smirks, reaches out to pat Harry on the chest like a condescending uncle. “How about you go to the bar and have a few drinks while I hit up the manager, huh? You look like you need it.” 

He turns and disappears into the crowd with a swirling coat. Normally, Harry would argue, insist on interrogating the manager together, because despite his young age, he is good at what he does. He wouldn’t be here if that weren’t the case. Harry is frustrated, but at the same time he is just so damn tired, exhausted down to his very bones in a way that even sleep can’t fix. 

Not allowing his mind to wander any farther than this, Harry turns on his axis, and approaches the gold-plated, solid bar. It curves all the way along the back of the dance hall, and the bartenders behind it are dressed just like the waiters from the lobby; crisp, white shirts, black waistcoats and black bowties. Their hair is slicked back, and their pale faces with high cheekbones look almost eerily similar. 

“Einen Whisky, bitte,” he manages to string together without a too-heavy accent. The music is so loud that Harry doubts the bartender really heard much besides his order, let alone distinguish a foreign accent. 

It’s only a few moments until he sets a glass down in front of him, heavy and expensive crystal, and Harry fumbles in his pocket for the right amount of change. But before he can pull his hand out of his pocket, someone steps up beside him and a delicate, gloved hand settles briefly on his arm. 

“Ne t’en fais pas, chéri.”[x] 

Harry turns, startled, and is surprised to find one of the women from the train next to him; the one with the very short hair and dark skin that’s powdered with gold. She’s striking up close, cherry-red lips and thin, arched brows, athletic body clad in a heavily embroidered dress with a plunging neckline. 

With a wink, her gaze settles on the bartender and she slides a handful of coins over the counter towards him. He thanks her with a nod, and disappears briefly only to return with a large bottle of champagne. She grabs it by the neck, gives Harry’s arm a brief squeeze, then whirls around and has disappeared into the crowd. 

If she’s here, Harry promptly realises, that has to mean…

His mind trails off as he takes in the dancers, moving their bodies like they are possessed, arms thrown up into the air as if reaching for the sky. Smiles on their faces, eyes shut in bliss, not a care in the world as all troubles have been left on the cold, wet streets outside this glittery safe haven. 

Harry downs his drink in one go, tries to focus on something, anything; isolate faces in the crowd, but they all blur together and he doubts he’d be able to recognise any of them in the light of day. That’s the point, he guesses, to come here. Another one, at least, to forget and to be forgotten once the sun dawns on another day. 

Eventually, the lights dim, and the music swells, the hot and scented air becoming heady. Harry moves away from the bar, but stays on the fringe, keeps out of the way of young friends and couples fluttering around the room like moths searching for light. Nobody spares him a second glance, even though he must look awfully out of place in his suit and overcoat. 

Time passes, the band playing song after song, and Behrens doesn’t turn up again, perhaps caught up in a conversation with the manager, or already long gone and laughing his head off about the fatuitous Brit he left stranded at the cabaret. Regardless of where his temporary partner is, Harry can’t see any use in staring out at the ocean of dancers any longer. He doubts that Payne is hiding somewhere among them, and he definitely doubts that Payne would even set foot in an establishment such as this. 

Harry has never met the man and he can’t claim to know him. But he has spent the last weeks doing nothing but unravelling every thread that makes up the fabric of Payne’s very existence. Harry knows his shopping habits, what he likes to order for lunch and how many underpants he has folded away in his bedroom cabinet. He knows his shoe size, his allergies, and that he would to church with his mother when he would visit her, although he never visited a single service while in London.

Liam Payne been raised in an Anglican household, but he hadn’t actively practiced his faith after leaving home, could hardly be considered a pious man. Nevertheless, up until his defection, he’d led a life so orderly and quiet that Harry can’t imagine he’d go here, let alone enjoy anything so…lewd.

Recalling what Behrens said to him earlier that day, Harry figures that he and Payne are fairly alike in many ways. A similar upbringing and schooling, different profession but the same career path. And, if Harry is being honest with himself, a similar approach to their personal life. Meaning that, aside from the occasional family visits, they didn’t have one. And if Behrens hadn’t suggested it, Harry wouldn’t have chosen to go to an establishment like this. Thinking about what his mother would say if she were to see him now makes him shudder. 

He makes up his mind to get fresh air, too many sensations clouding his thoughts and judgement. Harry doesn’t like it when he can’t hear himself think. He isn’t – he isn’t fleeing the scene, not _bothered_ , per se, by what’s on display, by the lack of…propriety. But it makes him uncomfortable, this blatant display of decadence and sensuality, and he’d rather not get to the bottom of ‘ _why_ ’ just yet. 

Outside, the air is freezing and the pavement has essentially turned into a sheet of ice. Harry nearly slips, catches himself against one of the lampposts that lend the glossy surfaces a brilliant shine that will undoubtedly be gone by morning, replaced by dirt. His skin smarts with how biting the cold has become, contrasting so gravelly with the suffocating heat inside, but it’s refreshing and the low temperatures have eliminated all foul odours usually omnipresent in larger cities. 

Harry breathes in deeply, shuts his eyes for only a moment to centre himself again, to redraw the edges that have become blurred in the last hour or so. Drinking with Horan probably hadn’t been a good idea, and refusing dinner had only added to his mind being a little more vulnerable to – well. To whatever it is that is going on in Berlin once the sun has set and the lights are dimmed. 

It makes Harry long for the familiarity of London and his own flat; his bedroom with the creaky bed, the small sitting room with his armchair, books and coffee table where he left an unopened letter from his mother before leaving for King’s Cross. He wonders if she’s at all worried he hasn’t replied yet, and then quickly discards it, knowing full well that his mother is used to sparse correspondence on his part. She complains about it less often now that she has grandchildren to dote on. 

These days, she only portrays impatience in the face of Harry remaining unmarried, a status Harry isn’t keen on changing any time soon, even though he is very much aware of the growing number of raised brows whenever he mentions the fact that there is not yet a Mrs. Styles. 

Harry rubs his palms together in an attempt to warm up his hands, deliberates whether to head back to Charlottenburg or wait a bit longer for Behrens to show up again. Either way, it’s probably better if he stops relying on the burly German to treat him as an equal partner in this investigation. Of course, he could rat him out and tell Commissioner Zörgiebel that Behrens is proving to be entirely uncooperative, but that would do nothing to help him gain some respect in this city. 

Behrens’ approach to the investigation isn’t wrong, but Harry still remains quite certain that this isn’t the kind of crowd Payne would be surrounding himself with. He would know better than to trust them. And he would never rely on them to be discreet. Instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, like Harry just did, Payne wouldn’t be visiting the cabaret to have a good time. He’d probably stick to…seedier clubs. 

It might actually be worth to have another afternoon drink with his new flatmate. Something tells Harry that Horan is the kind of person who knows exactly where to go, might have even gone there, worked there. Musicians surely cannot be picky about the work that’s offered to them these days. 

Harry looks down the street. It’s not a long walk back to the station, but it’s a long way back to Charlottenburg. He is very tempted to take a cab, sink back into leather seats and close his eyes until arrival, but he can’t see any cars, and after the thundering music inside, back out here it’s suddenly eerily quiet, which is why the sound of footsteps on the pavement echoes loudly. 

He turns. The boy from the train steps into the circle of light that falls from one of the lanterns that line the street, making Harry’s breath catch in his throat. He seems to have lost his jacket, and the collar of his shirt is undone, a bit stuck under the pair of braces that keep his trousers high up on his small waist. There’s an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. 

Harry doesn’t understand how he’s not freezing. How his skin is still flushed, still smooth – still slightly sweaty. 

“Na, mein Hübscher,” he says, and his voice is soft, raspy, like rough fingertips delicately brushing over bare skin. “Haste mal Feuer?”[xi] 

“I –” Harry manages to say, tongue feeling heavy like lead, “excuse me?” 

Understanding dawns on his handsome face and he takes the cigarette out of his mouth, lips twitching with amusement and eyes sparkling with it. “Well, well,” he drawls, seamlessly transitioning from German to English like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “how did you end up on this side of the channel?” 

He tips his head, puts the cigarette to his lips again and pulls a small box of matches out of his trouser pocket. Lighting it, he flicks the match onto the streets and, hands back in his pockets, sways closer. 

“Business,” is Harry’s curt reply, and it takes another moment for the other shoe to drop. “Sorry, weren’t – weren’t you asking for a light?” 

His laugh is sudden and bright, and it doesn’t last long, but it remains evident in the fine lines at his crinkling eyes. “You got me there, darling.” Another smile, another shrug. “Just an excuse to talk to you. I saw you on the train, and you wouldn’t come over and talk to me, so when I saw you just now, I knew I couldn’t let that happen again.” 

It’s so honest, and so open. So…inappropriate. Harry finds himself flustered, embarrassed maybe, that he had gotten caught staring – that he hadn’t managed to stay discreet. Usually, Harry has better control; is better at not slipping up. Yet something about this young man is so horribly disarming that Harry fears he might lose grasp of reality if he looks at him much longer. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks when Harry remains silent, when Harry doesn’t know how to respond to him. “I wouldn’t have pegged you to be so shy,” he continues, “what with how you stared at me.” 

Harry flushes. “I didn’t – I mean…I wasn’t –” 

“Shhh,” he shushes him gently, flicks ash off of the end of his cigarette with a delicate flick of his wrist. “It’s all right, darling. I like being stared at. Especially by men as handsome as you.” 

Harry steps back. His shoulder hits the lamppost with a loud clang, the pain shooting down his arm dragging him out of his head, sharpening his surroundings again – making him realise that they’re standing out in the open, and – until a second ago – had been standing far too close. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry says stiffly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his composure even as the young man continues to smile at him through the smoke swirling up from the glimmering tip of his cigarette. 

“I know your type,” he replies, just as smooth as before, just as confident and unperturbed. There’s something quite…strange about him, but Harry can’t put his finger on it. He looks very young, about his own age, yet he conducts himself with the kind of self-assurance Harry has only seen in older men; powerful men. “But you should loosen up a little, darling. This is Berlin. You can be whoever you want to be.” 

He winks, wickedly, leaving many things unsaid and Harry should know better. But he finds his curiosity piqued, for numerous reasons. He has always had an ear for accents, but this…this is one he can’t quite place; a smooth Queen’s English with only a handful of sharper edges here and there, but all underlined by something that isn’t German, and isn’t anything else he’s come across before. 

He stretches out his hand. It’s cold when Harry grasps it, shaking it briefly. 

“I’m Louis,” he says, close once more, without Harry noticing it, without Harry being able to move away. His eyes are even more striking up close, eyelashes dark and long, drawing fine shadows onto a face that has features almost too dainty to belong to a man. 

“Styles.” It’s a habit he hasn’t been able to shake, due to only really having professional acquaintances apart from his family. He rarely introduces himself to anyone he doesn’t work with. “Harry Styles.” 

“Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Harry Styles,” Louis says, undeniably coquettish, wetting his lips as his eyes dart down to Harry’s, even if only for a moment. 

He’s shameless, and for a moment Harry wonders if this is it; if this is his own personal hell brought to life by this boy, this man, so intent on bringing all indiscretions of Harry’s youth back to the surface. It’s irrational, of course, and Harry reminds himself that it’s the curse of his profession to oftentimes read too much into things. He isn’t that foolish, stupid boy anymore who doesn’t know wrong from right, who is so easily tempted by a man who wears his depravity so blatantly on his sleeve. 

“Why aren’t you with your friends?” 

Louis shrugs and finishes his cigarette, drops it and drags the tip of his shoes across it. “They found their dancing partners for the night. I needed some air. And to be perfectly honest with you,” he adds with yet another wink, “this isn’t really my scene. If you know what I mean.” 

Images flash through his head, suddenly and jarringly so, of semi-naked, sweaty bodies whirling around and strong hands gliding over flat chests. Harry suppresses them, bites the inside of his cheek and wills his expression to stay blank. 

“I don’t”, he replies, but Louis doesn’t seem bothered.

“What brings you here, then? On this very fine evening.” 

He seems eager to keep the conversation going, despite Harry’s refusals to take his bait. And Harry doesn’t mind it, not exactly. Louis is, for the lack of a better word, fascinating, magnetic even. But there are many things Harry can’t tell him. He can’t expose himself to this complete stranger, and he can’t expose his investigation to him. 

“I’ve only been here a week. A…friend – he recommended this place to me. But I’m afraid he does not seem to know me very well, because I had to make a quick escape.” 

“What a shame,” Louis bemoans, still unbothered by the cold, or at least keeping up the pretence. “It’s a very particular cup of tea, isn’t it? I think you are in need of a strong remedy to overcome this special kind of trauma.” 

Louis might not feel the cold, but Harry can’t feel his toes and even though he was undecided not too long ago, he thinks he’d quite like to make his way to his bed in Charlottenburg. 

He tells Louis as much. “I think the only remedy is sleep.” 

“Oh no,” Louis disagrees heartily, “the night is still young and I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if you went home with disappointment in your belly.” Swinging back on his heels and then forward again, he juts up his chin, like he’s challenging Harry to a dare. “Let me buy you a drink, darling. I know a place not far from here that’s a lot smaller, a lot quieter, with an ale on tap that tastes just like home.” 

Harry doesn’t ponder on the fact that Louis can’t know what he considers ‘home’. And he is sure that Louis probably means well, taking pity on him instead of heading back inside to dance with his equally magnetic and beautiful friends. 

“I appreciate that, but I don’t –” 

“Oh, nonsense,” Louis cuts him off for the second time. “I insist. Consider it an official welcome to Berlin. I won’t take no for an answer.” 

Something tells Harry that Louis really means that, and that he usually gets what he wants, which isn’t surprising, given his charm; given his looks. Continuing to decline this invitation might to extend Harry having to stand outside in the cold, so he folds. There’s a voice in the back of his mind that tells him it might even be useful to make an acquaintance like Louis, who seems to know the city, and could potentially guide him to the places Behrens doesn’t have access to, doesn’t have informants in. 

“Alright,” Harry eventually says and is rewarded with a brilliant smile. 

“Excellent,” Louis responds. “I’ll even promise to keep my hands to myself,” and he holds said hands up in the air with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He starts down the street and turns when he realises that Harry isn’t following. 

“Don’t you want to get your coat?” Harry asks, but Louis just waves him off. 

“I’ll pick it up another day,” he says, urging him along. “Like I said, it’s not far. Let’s go. I want to get to know you.” 

Harry should know better, but he follows nonetheless. “How can you be sure of that?” he can’t but ask, still puzzled, still a little worried – but most of all fascinated. 

Louis loves again and it echoes around like the sound of a bell. “I have a feeling about you, Harry Styles.” Then he strides ahead. 

Harry follows.

 

 

People are looking at them. No, Harry has to correct himself, that isn’t quite true. People are looking at Louis, and they’re looking at Harry because he’s with Louis. 

The bar is a tiny hole-in-the-wall thing, dark but warm, with heavy velvet drapes and the smell of wax and liquor in the air. The actual bar takes up almost half of the long and narrow room, heavy and adorned with gold; a black marble countertop. The two bartenders are women, but Harry only realises that at second glance, because their hair is short and coiffed like men’s and they’re dressed in white shirts and ties. 

Most of the small, round tables are not occupied. Only a few seats towards the back are taken, a few young men in smart suits and a women in a shockingly white fur coat. 

She looks like a snowflake dropped into a pool of blood. 

It’s calm and quiet, the occasional clinking of glass embellishing soft jazz crooning from a large record player that stands in the far right corner of the bar, flanked by two tall potted plants. Mirrored walls multiply the space, make it seem larger than it really is, make it seem like there are dozens of pairs of eyes on them instead of just a handful. Harry feels like he’s on a serving platter, but Louis walks into the room, waves at the people in the back like he knows them (and maybe he does), blows the ladies behind the bar a kiss before finding an empty booth towards the side. 

One of the bartenders saunters over as soon as they’re seated. She’s tall and skinny, a strong jaw and a dusting of freckles, and she juts her hip out, hand coming to rest on it, looks Harry up and down. 

Then she turns to Louis, raises one razor-thin, curved brow at him. 

“Na, Schätzchen? Haste wieder ‘n Neuen an der Angel?“ she says with a voice that fits perfectly to her appearance, deep and smoky, almost masculine in its tone. “Den letzten schon wieder abgeschossen, obwohl er so’n heißer Feger war?“ 

Louis throws a quick glance at Harry before he returns her smile sweetly. “Ich fürchte er hat mir das Herz gebrochen, meine Liebe. Aber du weißt ja, ich bin kein Kind der Traurigkeit.“ Then he gestures to Harry, and says, thankfully switching to English, „this is my new friend Harry. Harry, this is Martha. Martha, my dear, be nice and say hello.” 

“Hello,” Martha acquiesces huskily. 

Harry clears his throat. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Martha chuckles, before turning back to Louis. “Wie drollig. Wo du die alle immer aufgabelst würd ich gern wissen. Das Übliche?“[xii] 

„Danke,“ Louis says before she heads back to the bar to, Harry assumes, get them drinks. “One of the best friends you can make in Berlin,” he tells Harry, leaning back in his seat, exposing the line of his throat in a way that might be entirely unintentional, but Harry is not so sure. 

“Horrible gossip. But if there’s anything you want to know about anyone, Martha knows about it.” He places his elbows on the table, folds his hands. Harry’s eyes fall onto the bones of his wrist, seemingly fragile like a bird’s.  “Now, Harry Styles, what brings you to Berlin?” 

For exactly this question, Harry has prepared an answer that explains his presence without endangering his investigation. It’s a necessity, in this case, to lie about what he’s doing, which is why it should roll off his tongue far easier than it does. 

“I work for Scotland Yard,” he says, because this much he needs to reveal. It is far easier to conceal the truth when offering up a slice of it. “I am pursuing a…private indiscretion that could have political consequences.” 

Louis’ brows rise on his forehead. “How scandalous. Let me guess. The British Ambassador had a mistress. Or no! An illegitimate child.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t say.” 

“Of course you can’t,” Louis huffs indignantly. “How cruel! First you make me curious, and then you deny me. Tell me, do you do that to all the boys?” 

Harry blinks, confused. “Do what?” 

A beat later, when Louis smiles, shows his teeth, Harry wishes he hadn’t asked. 

“Tease them,” he breathes. 

Harry blushes, but is saved from stuttering out a response by Martha’s return, who places to large glasses of what Harry assumes to be beer on the table. She winks at him, then turns on her heel without a word, swaying her hips as she disappears from view once more. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says after a while in which Harry can’t seem to find his voice. He sounds sincere and yet the expression in his face says something else entirely. It is not farfetched to suspect that Louis quite enjoys flustering people such as Harry; people who are not used to Berlin’s brashness and immorality, who instead take comfort in order and propriety. Louis probably finds it to be a source of amusement. Although Harry thinks he might be a tad unfair to the man. After all, aside from the undeniable fact that he appears to be an open…homosexual – he hasn’t been anything but kind so far. 

“So you’re here to investigate,” Louis continues, eager to get on with the conversation and not dwell on awkward pauses. “I have to say, darling, you have picked the absolute worst time to come. Berlin is utterly dreadful in the winter. Dark and cold and miserable.” 

It’s so true that Harry can’t but chuckle at that. “I have noticed.” 

“All this coldness coming from Russia and the Baltics,” Louis sighs dramatically. “What is one to do but drink oneself silly and, with a little luck, find a companion for the night to make the cold a tad more bearable.” 

It’s not directed at Harry. Despite everything Louis has said so far, this is a general statement, and yet Harry still finds himself a little flustered, finds his eyes fall onto Louis’ neck, his smooth and inexplicably tan skin stretched tightly over his chest and collarbones. There’s a dip between them that appears to be the perfect spot for Harry to press his thumb and suddenly he sees that tall glass of beer and thinks, _I really should not drink in his presence._  

Naturally, it’s the moment when Louis picks up his glass and lifts it in the air. “Let’s drink to that, darling. Shall we?” 

The glass is cool, and Harry’s fingers smudge the condensation on its surface. “Drink to finding companions for the night?” he asks sceptically, but he lifts his glass nonetheless. 

Louis tilts his head, considers him with a soft frown. “Well, I guess it does sound a bit vulgar for a first toast. Let’s make it friendship, then. To new friends in new places,” he declares, and gently nudges his pint against Harry’s. 

Still, a bit of it sloshes over the sides, coating Louis’ fingers and again, it might just be unintentional on his part, but he licks it off, pink tongue darting out and dragging over his skin, making Harry’s heart drop down to his feet. He is this close to reaching out to touch that he accepts the cigarette Louis offers him despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke, and does not like to do it. 

He suppresses a cough, ignores Louis’ quizzical stare and instead focused on the glowing tip of the cigarette and the familiar smell of tobacco in his nose. 

“You’re an odd one,” Louis says. 

“I could say the same to you,” Harry shoots back, already feeling an uncomfortable itch at the back of his throat. But he’s glad that his hands have something to do now; something other than seek the touch of Louis’ skin. 

“Oh no, darling,” Louis shakes his head. “You’ll find I’m terribly ordinary.” 

Harry finds that very difficult to believe. “Then how come you’re fluent in English? Or German? I don’t know, are you from here?” 

Louis takes another sip of his beer, another leisurely drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke as it curls up towards the ceiling. “Yes and no,” he replies cryptically. 

“What does that mean?” 

“I’m not German,” Louis replies. “And I wasn’t born here, but I’ve lived here most of my life. Grew up on the outskirts, moved into the city a few years ago because it was less lonely.” He pauses, licks his lips, flicks a bit of ash into the small ceramic tray on the table. “My father was English, actually, but he passed before I was born, so my mother went to stay with family in Potsdam. She was from Antwerp, originally.” 

“Belgian,” Harry concludes. “So you speak French, too?” 

“And Flemish,” Louis adds, and has the decency to grin a bit sheepishly. “A bit of Russian, too, but barely enough to get through Tolstoy without wanting to kill myself.” He rolls his eyes and says, as easily as he’d spoken German, as easily as he’s speaking English, “ _Знать мы можем только то, что ничего не знаем. И это высшая степень человеческой премудрости_.[xiii] There are a lot of Russians in Berlin. Not that I can blame them. I’d flee that country too.” 

Harry puts the cigarette to his lips again. It feels strange in his mouth, the taste bitter and unpleasant, but – and perhaps that is just wishful thinking – it makes him feel more relaxed. 

“Not a fan of socialism?” he asks. 

“Not a fan of autocrats,” Louis replies and unlike before, doesn’t meet Harry’s gaze, but keeps his eyes firmly on his own hands gripping his beer tightly. “Of killing everyone who disagrees, even if Stalin claims it’s for the greater good. The end doesn’t always justify the means, I think. Some people are just – barbaric.” He shakes his head, more to himself than to Harry. “But let’s not talk about that. I find most talk about politics awfully depressing.” 

In the blink of an eye, all shadows are gone from his face and Louis smiles again, leans forward, closer to Harry, whose spine stiffens. “Tell me more about yourself,” Louis doesn’t ask as much as he practically demands. 

“There’s not much to tell,” Harry replies.

Louis disagrees. “I don’t believe it. Come on, I’ve already poured half my heart out to you. The least you can do is tell me where you’re from.” 

“London,” Harry gives in. “But I was born and brought up in a small town not too far from Manchester. My parents still live there.” 

“Any siblings?” 

“A sister,” and he can’t but smile thinking of Gemma, can’t but feel a slight pang in his chest because he always misses her. “She’s married now, with two children. George and Christopher.” 

Louis shifts, and suddenly Harry feels soft pressure against his ankle, and warmth radiating up his leg to a place he usually has no trouble controlling. He has managed to unsettle Harry all evening, and he continues to expertly do so now. 

“Are you?” he asks. “Married?” 

Even after taking a sip of his beer, Harry feels parched, throat tight and dry. He should be telling Louis yes, he should lie and get up and hope to not see this person again; at least move his leg away and make it clear that Harry isn’t – that he is not – 

“No,” Harry says, without even realising that his lips have parted. 

The tip of Louis’ foot slides up his calf. “Good.” 

Ash drops off of Harry’s cigarette and falls onto the floor. He doesn’t notice.

 

*** 

 

“Where did you disappear to last night?” Behrens asks when he steps into the office. 

Harry glances up from the notes on his desk. There’s a coffee stain on his temporary partner’s tie already, and Harry allows himself to take small comfort in the fact that he looks as tired as Harry feels. Harry has been in the office since practically dawn, having found no rest at all after finally saying goodbye to Louis in the early hours of the morning, but not without a dinner invitation for tonight. He’d taken a cab back to Charlottenburg, washed and changed, and headed to work, where he’s been pouring over his notes while sipping on coffee that look and tastes like tar.

“I could ask you the same,” Harry replies and goes back to the papers in front of him, in no way considering telling Behrens about his night, even it is wasn’t, on the surface, particularly eventful. To placate Louis’ apparent curiosity, Harry had told him about a few minor cases from his time in Manchester. In return, Louis had told him a lot about Berlin; about the places to go, the places to avoid, so much information that Harry hasn’t managed to retain. He’s glad to still remember the address of the restaurant Louis had given him, a place north of the Landwehr Canal. Oranienstraße. 

Harry knows why he agreed to meet. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what a terrible idea it is. 

Behrens mutters something unflattering in German, but Harry decides to pay him no mind. He’s been staring at the note they’d found in Payne’s flat in Pimlico; the note with the address and a Cyrillic name they’ve had to discount. But Harry remains unconvinced, gut instinct telling him this note wasn’t just random, that it doesn’t just lead to an abandoned flat in Wedding, near – ironically perhaps – the English Quarter. 

He toys with the idea that the name could be a code, but the Cyrillic letters mean nothing to him, and brooding over them won’t get him anywhere. 

“Is there anyone in this building who speaks and reads Russian?” he asks Behrens without looking up. “And preferably also English?” 

Behrens’ heavy steps make the floor groan. “Du hast Wünsche, Junge,” he mutters, lets out a sharp whistle shortly afterwards and it only takes moment until Harry can hear someone hurrying down the corridor towards their office. 

Behrens’ young and pale-faced assistant – Weber, if Harry remembers correctly – pokes his head in. “Sie haben gerufen, Herr Oberkommissar?” 

“Det hab ich wohl, Weber,“ the older inspector gruffs. “Hol uns mal den Muselmann aus der Politischen. Wie hieß er noch gleich?“ 

“Malik, Herr Oberkommissar,“ Weber replies stiffly. He seems constantly nervous, constantly on edge, but Harry can’t blame him. He doesn’t enjoy working with Behrens either. “Ich weiß aber nicht, ob er schon im Haus ist.“ 

“Dann find’s raus,“ Behrens barks at him. “Heut noch, Weber.“[xiv] Then he turns to Harry. “Speaks a couple of languages, from what I’ve heard. But you should know. He’s – well.” 

He doesn’t go on, so Harry asks, “he’s what?” 

Behrens huffs out a short and joyless chuckle. “I guess you will see, Styles. Have fun.” 

With that, he leaves their office to do God knows what, and Harry is glad to be left alone. Behrens is difficult to bear on a good day, but Harry does not want to be dealing with the German when he’s feeling this dreadful. He doesn’t even know what day it is anymore. 

Absentmindedly, he wonders whether Horan or Louis would be useful as translators on this case, at least until he can pick up enough German to get around. And Russian, apparently, and he allows himself a moment of weakness to silently curse the Soviets to hell and back. 

A quiet knock pulls him back to the present, and he looks up to find Weber hovering in the doorway, another young man just behind him. Weber’s Adam’s Apple bobs up and down numerous times before he finally finds his voice. 

“Inspektor Styles,” he starts, quiet and unsure, red blotches dotting his otherwise nearly white skin. “Ehm, Herr Malik, from the…Politische.” 

Malik strides past Weber, and Harry understands what Behrens implied when he told him he would see. Malik’s skin is dark, eyes and hair even darker, the complete opposite of the pale-skinned, blue-eyed Weber who’s still standing on the threshold. His face is as close to perfection as Harry has ever seen one, as symmetrical and exquisite as the marble statues of Greek Gods that have their home at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. 

“Inspector Styles,” Malik says, seemingly unperturbed by the situation, quietly confident as he holds out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

Harry gets up to shake it. His grip is warm and firm, his gaze steady. “Likewise,” he says, quietly wonders if Malik might be of Indian descent, and how somebody like him had ended up working for the German police in Berlin. “Inspector Behrens mentioned you might be able to help me with a Russian translation.” He sends Behrens’ assistant a quick look and tells him, “Danke, Weber.” He thankfully gets the hint and leaves as quietly as he came. 

“Sure, Sir.” 

Malik steps up to the desk. His posture is proper, shoulders squared and back straight like a soldier’s. But he looks too young to have fought in the war, in his early twenties at the most. If he wasn’t – well. Harry might have been inclined to believe him to be the alumni of a Prussian military academy. But Malik appears to be of Indian descent, or something geographically similar, which would explain why he speaks English, but certainly not Russian. 

Harry decides against quizzing him on his background and instead hands him the note. “This note,” he begins to explain, “was found at a defector’s home in London. The address is an abandoned flat in Wedding. We assumed the Russian name might belong to the flat’s resident, but that is not the case. Additionally, there is no record of anyone of that name living anywhere in Berlin or its vicinity.” 

Malik takes the piece of paper and studies it for no more than three seconds before handing it back. “I’m not surprised,” he quips. “That’s not a name.” 

Harry feels his eyebrows rise on his forehead. “What? A translator at Scotland Yard –” 

“Has probably never been to Russia. Or knows anything about it, really,” Malik interrupts him. “Technically, it is a name, so I’m not surprised he made that error. But Dmitry Sadovnikov was a Russian poet. Not a very well-known one. Most people wouldn’t know of his existence.” 

“You said he was? Does that mean he’s dead?” 

Malik nods. “Died about…forty years ago? Give or take. Piss poor as well.” 

Harry studies the letters, almost expects them to morph into something else entirely now that Malik has revealed the likely truth behind them. “How come you know him then?” 

He hopes he doesn’t sound accusatory. Malik has been the first person in this entire bloody building who has actually proven to be instantly helpful and forthcoming. 

“Sadovnikov wrote a few songs I learned as a child,” Malik explains easily, not offended at all. But the words that follow don’t seem to be as easy to say. He bites at his bottom lip for a moment before he continues. “Most of them were about Stepan Timofeyevich Razin. A Cossack rebel.” 

“Let me guess,” Harry sighs, “he’s dead, too?”

“For about three-hundred years, Sir,” Malik replies and the left corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and sinks back into his chair. Any hope he had that there might be another clue hidden in that note is slowly but steadily diminishing and with it the hope that he’s inching closer to catching Payne. If every clue ends up meaning absolutely nothing, he’ll be stuck in this awful city for months.

“What do you think this is then, Mr. Malik?” he asks, even though he does not want to hear the answer. “Since neither the address nor the name seems to be leading anywhere from where I’m standing.” 

Malik clears his throat, folds his hands behind his back and appears to be a second away from clacking his heels together. “Honestly, Sir?” he asks and waits until Harry nods to go on. “A red herring. Something to throw you off the actual trail.” 

Harry has to begrudgingly agree with Malik’s assessment. Instead of having one bad clue, he’s left with none, and it seems that without Payne slipping up and accidentally showing his face somewhere, there could very well be no way forward with this investigation. He needs to find out where communist radicals meet up in this city and from where they conduct their business, have both ears on the ground and find out why Payne decided to come to Berlin. And given his poor knowledge of the language and the city, Harry has to admit to himself that he is going to need some help.

“Mr. Malik,” he starts and eyes the young man who is still standing in the same spot, not having moved a single muscle since he positioned himself, “what exactly is it you do for the political department?” 

“Translations,” Malik replies swiftly, but there is an undertone to the word that tells Harry that Malik is not exactly happy with the work he’s doing. “The superintendent deals with a lot of foreign diplomats and dignitaries. I also write protocol.”

“Can you shoot a gun?” 

“Better than most,” Malik says. 

He shouldn’t be, but Harry is still a bit surprised that Malik’s talents are obviously being wasted. “Why do back office work then?” 

Malik levels him with a flat look. “Isn’t it obvious, Sir? If they can be believed, I am lucky to be employed at all.” 

His tone is polite, but he can’t hide the obvious disdain he feels towards his colleagues and employer. And to his credit, he is hopelessly overqualified for what can’t be more than a secretary’s position, translations disregarded for a moment. It is most likely not easy for someone with Malik’s…background to be respected in this line of work; any line of work, if Harry is being honest. 

Perhaps they could combine their professional grievances, it occurs to Harry, and become semi-independent from a hostile police force unwilling to cooperate with people they deem _other_. 

“Mr. Malik, how would you like to assist me in my investigation?” he asks, notices the barely-contained shock and surprise in the widening of Malik’s dark eyes. 

“I – uh…I will gladly be of assistance, Sir. If I can,” Malik rushed out, stumbling over a syllable or two. 

“Brilliant. I will talk to Commissioner Zörgiebel right away. I’m sure he’ll be happy to temporarily reassign you.” 

If he refuses, Harry can always send the British Ambassador after him.

  

 

Commissioner Zörgiebel hurls, according to Malik, a number of colourful insults Harry’s way, but eventually decides to accommodate Harry’s wish to have Malik added to his investigation as an assistant. Nobody voices it, but Harry is quietly sure that many are happy to not have Malik in their department anymore, at least for the time being. 

He doesn’t know where Behrens disappeared to, but Harry decides there’s no point sitting in his office and staring at the same evidence he’s been staring at all week. 

They take a car to the address in Wedding, because it’s the only thing that Harry thinks might not entirely be a waste of time. The flat is abandoned, tall ceiling and clouds of dust whirling around with every step, but perhaps it hadn’t been used as a temporary safehouse. Perhaps it had simply been a rendez-vous point, or a place someone had left another clue for Payne to find once he reached Berlin. 

“How long has it been abandoned?” Malik asks once he steps through the front door after Harry, looking far too dashing in a hat and coat that have left their best days long behind them. He wrinkles his nose at the musty smell, a mixture of mould and something else entirely rotten that makes Harry’s stomach turn slightly. 

“The widow who apparently still owns it left five years ago. According to neighbours, it’s been empty ever since.”

He watches as Malik takes in the living room and adjourning kitchen, both rooms still furnished just like the bedroom and bathroom. Aside from the fact that it hasn’t been cleaned and dusted in years, it’s surprisingly well intact. 

“What do you make of it?” Harry asks. 

Malik puts his hands in his slacks, moves closer to the kitchen window that’s so filthy one can barely make out the inner courtyard. 

“You don’t know much about Wedding, do you?” Malik throws back at him, smile tugging at his lips. He turns and opens a kitchen cabinet, and then another, gaze wandering over what’s inside them briefly. 

“I know nothing about Wedding, Mr. Malik,” Harry replies and wonders what that fact has to do with anything. Malik is kind enough to enlighten him only short moments after. 

“Wedding is a working-class district,” he explains. “A flat of this size is usually occupied by a dozen people. If anyone got wind of this being empty, it wouldn’t stay empty for long. The fact that nobody’s occupied it since the widow left is rather suspect. Also,” he adds with a nod to the cabinets, “nobody has taken the plates or pots, the furniture and linen. Trust me, people are really fucking poor and if they stumble over anything that could be sold, they take it, even if they have to tear the wallpaper off with their bare hands.” 

Malik saying it like that makes it rather obvious, and Harry should have figured the same the first time he’d stepped through the door. This isn’t rural England where people know and are friendly with their neighbours because they’ve been neighbours for generations. If someone had abandoned their home just after the war that had left their country in a continuous downward spiral, others would have jumped at the chance of grabbing whatever they’d left behind. 

Yet this flat is completely untouched. There is no sign that someone even attempted to break in, even though all the other occupants of this building they interviewed clearly know that nobody has been living here in years. 

“So there has to be a reason why the flat has not been pillaged,” Harry concludes. “What are the chances that it’s got something to do with why I found a piece of paper with this address in a flat belonging to a communist defector?” 

Malik lets out a laugh, gives one of the cabinet door a nudge. It falls shut, creating a cloud of dust that momentarily obscures his attractive features. “Communist, huh? Coincidences are a myth.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because, Inspector Styles,” Malik drawls, shifting his weight onto his heels and then the tips of his toes, teetering back and forth, “This area of Berlin is also known as ‘Red Wedding’.” 

Harry stops short. Behrens certainly didn’t mention that. “Red, as in –” 

“As in Communist red, yes,” Malik confirms with half a shrug. “Like I said, mostly angry workers who are part of militant groups. There have been a number of clashed between them and the National Socialists this past year.” 

“Then let’s agree,” Harry says, “that this is definitely not a coincidence.” 

It can’t be. For whatever reason, this address had been given to Payne before he’d stolen confidential documents from the British Government and fled the country with apparently nothing but the clothes on his back. An address that, apparently, was in the heartland of the Communist movement in Berlin and that, against all odds, had remained entirely untouched since the war. 

“Once we’re back at the office,” he tells Malik, “I want you to find out everything there is to know about the people who used to live here. Doesn’t matter if they’re dead or alive. I want to know where they went, who their children are, and what they were up to when they still lived here. Friends, acquaintances, church, political affiliations. Understood?” 

“Of course, Sir,” Malik responds, still composed and entirely unflustered.

Harry doesn’t think anything of it.

 

 

Mr. Malik, Harry concludes after just a day of working with him, has been more than just wasted doing translations and protocols. He is efficient, razor sharp and knows the various archives of the police headquarters like the back of his hands. When he can’t find what he’s looking for, he knows who to ask, and Harry suspects that the fact that he’s rather easy on the eye makes the various secretaries more willing to help him look. 

He walks back into the office late afternoon with a stack of folders and an expression on his face that quashes Harry’s hopes of perhaps accidentally striking gold. Malik drops the files on Harry’s desk and pulls over a chair to sit down opposite him. 

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” 

Malik shakes his head and pulls a cigarette case from the inside pocket of his jacket, lighting one up and settling back in the chair. “That depends. I can head to Wedding’s town hall tomorrow, perhaps there’s something more to find out there, but I doubt it. The flat was property of Günther and Ilse Habermeier until 1918, after which it was passed on to their only son Alfred due to Günther’s death. Ilse moved to live with her sister in Kiel, but she passed away two years ago.” 

“What about the son?” Harry asks. 

“Down in Dresden. A doctor, apparently. Catholic, as were Günther and Ilse. Never set a foot wrong in their lives.” 

Harry feels a headache coming. A quick look at his wristwatch tells him that he most likely won’t have time to head back to his room to change and have a quick nap before meeting Louis for dinner.

“Maybe we need to talk to the other residents again,” he muses, although chances that they’ll say anything they haven’t said already are rather low. They hadn’t been particularly forthcoming when he’d gone round with Behrens a few days ago. He sincerely doubts they’ve changed their views on the police since then. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” Malik says, sitting up straight, “that you should go home and get some. No offence, Inspector, but you don’t look so good.”

Harry sighs. “Thank you, Malik, I am aware. Unfortunately, I have dinner plans and it would be impolite to cancel.” 

Malik gets up and heads over to Behrens’ desk, grimaces at the overflowing ashtray but manages to jam his half-smoked cigarette in there anyway. 

“I didn’t know you had acquaintances in Berlin,” he says, unassuming, and yet something in Harry’s chest screeches to a halt. 

For a split second, when Malik glances at him curiously, he fears everything that happened last night is written on his face. Every suggestive comment Louis made, every heavy pause, every drawn-out touch; every time Harry did not pull back when he should have. It’s ridiculous, and Harry is well aware that there’s no plausible cause for concern. But he still doesn’t think it’s a good idea to mention Louis to anyone. He doesn’t want these people to get the wrong ideas. 

“I didn’t either,” he mutters and then adds with a little more volume, “why don’t you call it a day, Mr. Malik? You’ve already been extraordinarily helpful. Perhaps tomorrow we can take a look into activities relating to the local Communist organisations.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” Malik says. “I’ve actually got to finish up a protocol. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.” 

With that, he backs out the door and closes it, leaving Harry alone for the first time since morning. Harry lets out a long breath, relieved to be on his own again even though he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere today without the help of his new assistant. But it’s an added pressure in an already highly demanding situation. 

Distractedly, he skims through the folders Malik left on his desk that, as expected, do not offer up any new leads and briefly considers hiding out in his room until morning, redrawing a line that might have gotten a little smudged. There is no reason not to have dinner with Louis. Harry has no ulterior motive, he considers Louis a new acquaintance who could be helpful in his investigation, their budding relationship strictly professional in its nature regardless of Louis’ personal…inclinations. 

Harry doesn’t want to make a habit of judging people who are different, especially if they – like Malik and Louis – have been entirely courteous towards him. He doesn’t – he doesn’t want to turn into his father. 

He grabs his coat and hat and leaves the building quickly, thankfully without having to make small-talk with anyone. He hails a cab and gives the driver the address. The driver pulls a face at his accent, but doesn’t say anything. They cross the Spree twice, taking the route across the small Museum Island[xv] that hosts a handful of impressive buildings, including the Berlin Cathedral. Harry wouldn’t mind taking some time to explore it, perhaps when all of this is over and he can look forward to returning to London. 

The drive isn’t long, but just long enough for Harry’s eyes to feel heavy and for him to be slightly light-headed and off-balance when he steps out of the car and onto the wet and dirty pavement. He looks briefly at the scuff on his shoes as people hurry past, then up at the sign above the narrow glass door where half the letters have faded away, making it impossible to actually read what is says. Brass numbers, crudely nailed into the wall beside the door indicate that he’s at the right address, but – 

Harry finds it difficult to believe that Louis, who seems so polished and sophisticated, would come to a place like this, in what appears to be a very working-class district. It’s a stark contrast to the glitz and decadence of the previous night. The windows are so dirty he can only see a faint glow from the lights inside. 

With hesitation weighing down his steps, Harry places a palm on the cold glass of the door and slowly pushes it open. It screeches in its hinges and above him, a rusty bell chimes, cutting through the rumbling noise inside the restaurant that, now that Harry can actually take a proper look at it, is surprisingly homey and spacious, filled with heavy wooden tables and cushioned chairs, candleholders on seemingly every surface, wax overflowing and dripping onto white table cloths. 

Nobody pays any attention to him, only a young waitress lifts her head from where she’s wiping a table and smiles, dark hair messily spun together on top of her head. Her cheeks are rosy, and there is a smudge on her chin that looks like ash. Harry stills, returns her smile albeit a bit stiffly, and tries to spot Louis in the crowd. It’s busy, all tables occupied, but he can’t make out his striking features anywhere. 

He is so preoccupied with his attempt to spot Louis that he only realises the waitress has moved when her face is inches away from his. There are freckles on her nose, a few high up on her cheekbones; speckles of green interrupt the chocolate brown of her eyes. She smells like mint; like mint and sugar. 

“Harry Styles?” she asks, accent roughening up the r’s, a surprisingly deep and strong voice for a woman of her stature. 

“Yes?” He moves back half a step. Most Germans he has encountered do not seem to care about the concept of personal space. They seldom show manners or any sort of respect, most of them overly forward and blunt. 

“You are looking for Louis?” 

She tilts her head. A strand of hair escapes the knot on her head and curls downward, embraces her right ear, and for a moment Harry feels stuck looking at it. 

“I – yes, sorry. I am,” he replies with a brief delay and, remembering his own manners, takes off his hat, tries not to think about the state of his hair. 

“Come,” she says, not beating around the bush and turns on her heels, expecting Harry to follow, making her way past the tables, dodging elbows and chairs. 

Harry hurries after her, belatedly realising that she’s wearing trousers, wide ones that are cropped at the ankle, revealing delicate bones and dirty socks in even dirtier shoes. As she walks, she tucks the dishtowel into the back pocket and, grabs a stack of empty plates from one of the tables without a hitch in her rhythm. At the far end of the room, she pushes aside a curtain and slips away. Harry falters, stares after her for a moment, and then another one, and when she doesn’t appear to be returning, he takes a deep breath, and follows after her. 

The curtain is dusty and heavy and Harry’s nose itches for a second before he smells something so good it makes his stomach rumble. There is a dark and narrow hallway up ahead, a crooked staircase right at the end of it. A rectangle cut into the wall like a window is the only source of light and the young waitress is leaning into it. It’s the kitchen, Harry realises belatedly as he begins to register the clanging of pots and plates, to feel the warmth from the ovens and cookers and to distinguish the smell of frying potatoes, of sizzling sausage in an oily pan. 

Something sharp is underlying the other scents, a mixture of vinegar and fruity schnapps and for the first time since he set foot into this city, Harry feels hungry. 

The waitress finishes her brief chat with someone from the kitchen staff and makes her way towards the stairs. This time, Harry doesn’t hesitate and follows her with assured steps, notices the three occupants of the tiny, cramped kitchen eyeing him curiously in his periphery vision. The steps are lopsided and steep, turn left at a ninety degree angle and lead to a landing not much larger than two or three of the steps put together. 

She’s waiting there for him, left hand already holding the rusty handle of one of two doors, the shadow of a smile still on her pretty face. There isn’t much light up here, just a hint of it creeping out beneath the door they’re standing in front of, and her eyes are dark, almost black and the gaze she meets his with is, just for the flicker of a second, so knowing that Harry’s mind scrambles to come up with – with an excuse, with a reason for his presence, but then she opens the door, steps aside, and Harry’s attention is drawn elsewhere. 

The room is almost the same size as the main dining room downstairs, but nowhere near as cluttered. Some furniture that seems to usually fill it differently has been pushed to the walls to make space in the centre for one single table and two chairs. One of the chairs is still vacant. The other, the one facing the door and therefore Harry, is occupied. 

Louis’ face is illuminated by the three burning candles on the table in front of him and in this light, his cheekbones appear even sharper and the slope of his upper lip more pronounced. He’d been dressed rather conservatively the previous night in a simple shirt and trousers, but this place (or the occasion, Harry can’t be sure of it) seems to have made him more…forward – if that is the right word – with regards to his clothing choice. 

He is wearing a shirt that cannot possibly be called so. Made of silk, it shimmers in the light, delicately draped over Louis’ narrow shoulders, but not doing much else to cover them. Rich blue and turquoise hues intertwined with gold thread, a loosely tied bow sitting right above his sternum to accentuate – well. If he were a woman, it would be revealing far too much bosom to be considered proper. 

Harry certainly hopes he is still wearing a decent pair of trousers. 

Behind him, the door is pulled shut again, and Harry barely manages to stop himself from flinching. He takes a few more steps into the room, bringing him closer to Louis who is still gazing at him with a serene smile on his face. Striking – and utterly beautiful. 

Suddenly, Harry’s heart is in his throat. 

“This isn’t what I had in mind when you suggested dinner,” he says, cutting through the silence but unfortunately failing to cut through the unnamed tension hanging in the perfumed air between them. 

He makes his way to the other chair as quickly as possible, but Louis does not even get up when Harry is at the table, instead tipping his head back slightly, eyes still focused on Harry’s face.

“I thought you might prefer a more…intimate setting,” Louis replies smoothly.

Harry takes a breath before sitting down, pulling the chair up to the table again. It’s only now that he really takes his eyes off of Louis and has a look at what’s set out between them. There’s a bottle of wine and a small basket with dark, sliced bread, possibly to accompany the platter of cheeses and meats. Three crystal bowls are filled with what seem to be condiments, but Harry is far from familiar with German cuisine, and he hasn’t exactly spent the past week acquainting himself with it. 

“Perhaps a little _too_ intimate,” he says, lifting his gaze to meet Louis’ again. 

Louis’ smile widens just a fraction and in one swift movement, he leans forward, reaching for the wine. The right sleeve of the…blouse he’s wearing slides down his forearm, only stopping at the crook of his elbow, exposing smooth skin that shimmers softly, as if it’d been oiled not too long ago. Harry thinks he can smell it when his fingers touch Louis’, taking the offered glass from him; a light but paradoxically heady scent of citrus and sandalwood. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Louis breathes and only briefly tips his glass towards Harry before taking a drink. 

Harry decidedly does not watch the line of his throat or the way his fingers caress the glass, trying to remember the last time someone had looked at him with similar undivided attention and unabashed interest, yet coming up short. He is aware that – objectively – his face could be considered conventionally handsome, and that he would make a good match considering his family and his profession, but he’s never taken a liking to any social functions that could be described as the matchmaking kind. 

Harry has spent the last couple of years fully dedicated to his work, to his mother’s grief, and having Louis’ look at him like this – he doesn’t know how to react to it. 

“You look awfully stressed, darling,” Louis regards him worriedly, setting down his glass but keeping one finger on the brim, slowly tracing it. “I hope your day was better than that.” 

The wine is like velvet on his tongue, a subtle flavour that remains at the back of his throat even after he swallows it. “I went better than anticipated, but not as good as I’d hoped,” he says, pushing aside the mounting frustration at having come up empty after a promising lead once again. “But I have a new assistant who is actually proving to be helpful. I think he’s been as much of a thorn in their side as I have.” 

“Why’s that?” Louis asks and Harry – 

Harry does not quite know how to reply. “Well. He’s not – he’s…he appears to be from – India, or perhaps Persia, I can’t be sure. Probably speaks as many languages as you. Very bright, very quick, but the Germans…” He trails off, pauses as he stares into the deep, dark red of the wine. “They called him a slur. I didn’t understand it.” 

Maybe he imagines that Louis’s jaw clenches momentarily, a reflection of how he feels about how Malik had been treated within the police department. 

“What did you think?” Louis asks him eventually, drawing Harry’s gaze from his jaw back to his eyes. “When you realised he was a – foreigner.”

Harry stops short. He isn’t sure he thought much of it when Malik had walked into his office. Aside from noticing the others’ aversion towards him, from registering his darker skin, Harry had been too tired to focus on anything but the investigation and how Malik could be of help. 

“I didn’t occur to me,” he answers truthfully, “I was just – grateful, mostly. That he could help, and was willing to do so. And I still find it strange nobody before me has made proper use of his abilities.” 

The hard line of Louis’ mouth softens once more. It’s not a smile, not like before, but there is something in his eyes that Harry can’t decipher; isn’t sure he should. 

“Judging a man by his own merit and not the colour of his skin,” Louis muses, then he sighs, tips his head slightly to the side. A thin strand of hair escapes his perfectly coiffed hair and curls onto his forehead, tickling his brow, but Louis doesn’t notice; doesn’t brush it away. Harry’s fingers tingle, wanting to do it for him. “Oh my, Inspector Styles… be careful or I might start believing I dreamt you up.” 

Harry pauses with the glass of wine halfway on its way to his lips. He’s aware of how foolish he must look, with eyes like saucers and his mouth agape. But he doesn’t know if he can get used to Louis brashness, and the way phrases such as these just tumble out of his mouth like they are comments about the weather. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable, darling?” 

Harry has more wine. He feels drunk already. The collar of his shirt is stiff, and it itches, irritatingly, but Harry refuses to give in to the indignity of loosening his tie and baring his neck the same way Louis is offering up his. 

“You know the answer to that.” 

Louis hums. “Perhaps I do. I just don’t know why. It’s just the two of us. Why not – relax a bit, darling? Be yourself?” 

The grip on his wine glass tightens and, feeling short of breath, Harry does his best to hold Louis’ gaze steadily. “Perhaps your assumptions on who I am aren’t entirely accurate.” 

“I don’t think they are,” Louis replies quickly, without hesitation and completely confident in his assessment of Harry. “I told you. I know plenty of people who used to be just like you; constantly editing themselves, looking over their shoulder and so, so unhappy.” 

He can’t but bristle at that, feeling his personal matters infringed upon by someone who is, despite all his efforts to change it, technically still a stranger; someone who has known him for less than twenty-four hours. 

“I’m not unhappy,” he refutes, and belatedly realises that it might be the most obvious lie he’s ever told. Harry can’t even pretend to himself that he is happy. He has been nothing but tired and stressed and tense for years. Right now, Harry likes to blame Berlin for it, with its harsh language and even harsher weather. But the truth is that Harry has probably not been happy since he was a child; since he had set foot onto the path his father had picked out for him. “And I’m not…” he wants to insist, but cannot even find it in himself to utter the word. 

“Not what, Harry?” 

Louis is patient, his voice calm, and Harry is struck by the thought that this isn’t the first time he’s had this exact conversation. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, squares his jaw. “Depraved,” he says, his father’s voice echoing in his ears as he does so. Dropping his eyes to his lap, Harry watches his fingers as they start fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. There’s a very small dark stain on the left one, possibly from the coffee he had earlier. 

Silence falls over them. There’s faint noise coming from the restaurant and the kitchen downstairs, laughter and music and someone yelling in the kitchen in German before a dull thud echoes up to this room, indicating something heavy may have fallen to the floor. 

“Oh, darling,” Louis whispers eventually. He sounds sad. Harry does not want to meet his eyes. “You refuse to judge your new assistant based on his skin colour; his heritage. You cannot possible believe that a person loving another should be considered a sin.” 

With a long exhale, Harry lets his body relax and leans back in his chair. His eyes sting, so he rubs a hand across them before dropping it down to his collar, finally loosening his ties just a smidgen. He needs to breathe a bit easier, and he needs to stop the blood pumping too quickly through his body to cool, because the wine, the candles…Louis – it’s making him feverish. 

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he insists. “That’s what it is.” 

“I don’t think you believe that. And it’s also not true,” Louis disagrees. His voice doesn’t show any agitation, but even though he still appears to be perfectly calm, his tone is steely, and he says it with the utmost conviction. “You have a sister, don’t you?” 

Harry glances up in surprise. He nods. 

“I’m sure you love her dearly,” Louis goes on. “But only a few years ago, she and women like her hadn’t been allowed to vote, somehow being looked at as less than a man. And even though they can vote now, if they have a husband who allows it, that is, there are so many things we consider improper for women to do.” 

He reaches for the wine and tops up both their glasses, not leaving much left in the bottle. Louis takes the time to sip at his glass, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. His thoughts on women’s rights do echo Harry’s own, that much he has to admit. His sister is brilliant, far more so than he is, and Harry has always felt that society had held her back, just like his mother had been held back, robbed of her voice by a husband whose ego had been too big to allow anyone else to be heard. 

“Did you know that it has been legal for women to vote in New Zealand since 1893?” Louis tells him. “It took Germany twenty-five years to follow suit. It took the United States twenty-seven years. What I mean to say,” and he levels Harry with a look to penetrating, so compelling, that his heart jumps in his chest and even though he can’t see it, he’s sure goosebumps break out all over his body. 

“Oftentimes in history, we have considered things to be what they are. And sometimes it took long, and other times, it fortunately did not take very long at all for these things to change. A few years ago, women did not vote, and now they do. Because change is inevitable, darling.” His right hand delicately entangles with the bow of his blouse, fabric sliding between slim fingers. “You should welcome it.” 

It sounds poetic, Harry thinks, what Louis is saying. Poetic and perhaps a little utopian, but that is something he can’t really be blamed for, living in a city that seems to have detached itself from the rest of Europe in many ways. What Behrens has described as hell might very well be someone’s paradise. And if you’re in paradise – what use is reality? 

But Harry likes reality, and if we wants to do his job, he can’t do without it either. He is yet to figure out what Louis does, exactly, but judging his wardrobe, his manners, his language skills…he can’t be anything but upper class. It is possible he simply doesn’t have to work, and has the luxury to not only afford his lifestyle, but also to ignore anything that does not concern him directly. To be born with money and status means not having to deal with the same reality as the rest of them. 

“It’s not that simple,” he says because of it, hoping that this will be the end of that part of their conversation. 

“I know it’s not,” Louis responds, surprising Harry a little by how easily he seems to concede the point. “But it’s simple now, isn’t it?” 

He tugs on the bow, just a little, not enough to make it come loose, but all of a sudden, Harry’s eyes zero in on it, and he can’t think of anything but. Can’t help but picture the bow being undone and the fabric falling open, revealing even more smooth skin, perhaps even sliding off Louis’ shoulder, exposing the curve of his neck entirely. Can’t help but wonder how intense the scent of citrus would be if he were to move his face closer, if he were to – to actually touch him. 

“There’s just you and me, darling,” Louis says, pulling Harry out of his trance. He feels caught, the smile on Louis’ face suggesting he might very well be perfectly aware what Harry has just been thinking, which makes what he says next even harder for Harry to swallow. “You can say whatever you think. Do whatever you feel like.”

It is probably ironic that his words leave Harry speechless and petrified. He doesn’t – he can’t trust himself around Louis when he speaks like that; when he seems to be able to drown out the world around them and command Harry’s focus, drawing him in, closer and closer. Louis is… Christ, he’s like a particularly beautiful Venus flytrap and Harry is the fly that can’t stay away. 

The remainder of their dinner passes in a blur and later, Harry will hardly remember what was said. He knows that Louis did most of the talking, telling stories about people he knew interspersed with tales of the city, but he only really regains full consciousness once the door of the restaurant swings shut behind him and icy wind hits his face. He watches Louis button up his coat, a luxurious thing with a heavy fur collar and a dark herringbone pattern. 

Wisps of fox tickle his cheeks, and he brushes them away with gloved hand, his nose twitching for a moment before he turns his gaze towards Harry, who is still frozen on the steps. 

He smiles. “Sometimes,” Louis says, “ the cold is unbearable. But more often than not, I find myself relishing it.” He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes as if he’s savouring the below zero temperatures. “I just love the smell of frost. It’s so sharp and clean. And it always reminds me of my childhood.” 

“Why’s that?” Harry finally gets his legs to move and walks down the remaining three steps, suddenly finds himself much closer to Louis; so close that he can feel the warmth of his breath on his face when he replies. 

“Our house was by a lake, surrounded by nothing but woods. In the summer, you’d hear birds and there’d be people sailing. But in winter, the lake froze over, and everything got so quiet and still, and I’d walk out across the ice and stay there for so long I couldn’t feel my toes when my mother would drag me back inside.” 

He starts along the pavement, far emptier than earlier, and also far darker. Not every streetlamp is lit, some only flickering, and Harry follows him, no hesitation in his steps. 

“We used to go ice skating,” he tells Louis once they have walked two blocks towards North in silence. “My sister and I. On a small pond in our village. But it wouldn’t freeze over every year, and one year a boy I went to school with broke through the ice and drowned. After that, we weren’t allowed anymore.” 

“Did you know him well?” 

The question surprises Harry a little. He’s not thought about this in a really long time. “I don’t actually remember, but I don’t think so. I can’t even remember his name. Which sounds terrible,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“I don’t think it does,” Louis tells him. He keeps looking ahead, seems a bit less focused than before, a little more lost in thought, as if he’s thinking about something else entire and Harry – well. He’s not proud that he wants Louis’ entire focus to be back on him while, at the same time, he is glad to not be under his direct scrutiny anymore. “You remember him. That counts for something. Der Mensch ist erst wirklich tot,” Louis continues in German, “wenn niemand mehr an ihn denkt.“[xvi] 

“What does that mean?“ 

Louis comes to a halt, stares ahead for a handful of moments before he finally looks to his left, looks at Harry, and quirks his right brow. 

“A person is only truly dead once nobody thinks about them anymore,” he says quietly, words weighted down with a sudden sorrow that makes Harry want to dig, ask questions, even though it would probably be incredibly sensitive. He recalls Louis mentioning that he’s lost both his parents, so that sorrow most likely belongs to them. So Harry decides not to ask.

Instead, he says, “I should really start learning German,” and doesn’t mean, at least not really. He has Malik’s help now and the investigation is important. He feels like learning an entirely new language might swallow up far too much time and not bear fruits in time. 

“I could teach you.” 

Harry blinks. “What?” 

Louis lets out a soft chuckle. His lips quirk, and Harry has to try rather hard from staring at them for too long. “I said I could teach you, darling.” 

He sways closer, or perhaps it’s Harry who does so. “Oh.”   

Nobody but them is out on the streets. Sensible, Harry thinks absentmindedly, since it’s freezing cold, late and far too dark. Not too far from where they’re standing, he thinks he can see the bank of the Spree, some lights from the other side of the river reflecting off of the smooth surface. 

“We could even start tomorrow,” Louis suggest, pulling Harry’s attention back to him. “It’s Sunday. Even you must get that day off work. Unless you had plans to go to church?” he asks, almost teasingly, like the idea of people going to church on Sundays is completely odd. 

Harry hasn’t been to church in a long time. He’s been baptised, and his parents are still devoted members of their Anglican congregation back home, but Harry has never been particularly inclined, especially after – 

Christ, he thinks, he isn’t Catholic, but perhaps he should go to church, and go to confession. Tell the priest, _Father, I have not yet sinned, but Lord, do I want to_. 

“Are you sure?” he asks instead of directly replying to Louis’ question.

“Of course I am,” Louis responds, seemingly in high spirits at the prospect of getting an entirely inept student he can teach one of the hardest languages imaginable to. He really is an odd character. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise. And I am sure you’ll find that I am an excellent teacher.” 

He says it with a wink, with a suggestive smirk, and Harry does not know what spirit possesses him when he retorts, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.” 

Barely have the words tumbled past his lips before Harry already regrets them. Despite the cold, his face suddenly feels like its burning as Louis’ smile widens. He doesn’t think he’s felt this mortified since stumbling in front of the Commissioner and nearly falling flat on his back when he’d just started out at Scotland Yard. 

His mind is scrambling to come up with something to negate what he’s just said, to put it off as a terrible joke, to make sure that Harry would never say anything and truly mean to insinuate that Louis would – 

“What if I am?” Louis says, cutting through Harry’s panicked internal monologue like an axe through a plank of wood. 

For the second time tonight, words fail him. Harry doubts there even are words in existence to describe the way his chest is suddenly contorting and constricting at the way Louis’ smile widens, at the way he is standing in front of Harry, jutting his chin out in the same manner as when they first met just – Lord, just yesterday. 

Louis is flirting, has been all night; has been since the second they met. Without shame, without hesitation, without an ounce of self-doubt, like he knows even the darkest and deepest thoughts Harry is too afraid to even allow himself to think. But whether he allows these thoughts and images to manifest – Louis is standing right there, and he is very real, and the way Harry’s heart is beating hard and fast tells him very clearly… 

He might already be a lost cause.

Louis steps closer, until they’re almost chest to chest, and he looks up at Harry through his lashes, knowing full well the effect he has. Fuck, Harry thinks, this is not the first time he’s done this. This is not the first time he’s… 

“You should kiss me,” Louis says then, and the trap he set out for Harry snaps shut. “Like you’ve wanted to all night.” 

There’s no way out. A part of Harry is still caught between fight and flight, but it diminishes by the second; diminishes with every breath Louis takes, with every flutter of his eyes. Out in the open, surrounded by Berlin and all its slumbering inhabitants, Harry forgets why this is a terrible idea, forgets the pain of his father’s hand hitting his cheek, the pain and the humiliation and the sheer endless shame. Forgets it all, just because of this man in front of him. 

Forgets he has everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain. 

His mind goes blank, the city disappears, and Harry bridges the short distance between them to fit his lips to Louis’.

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

[i] „Der Mensch ist erst wirklich tot, wenn niemand mehr an ihn denkt.“ – [A person is only truly dead once nobody thinks about them anymore.] – Bertolt Brecht

[i] KPD – Acronym for Kommunistische Partei Deutschland, Communist Party Germany

[ii] Warmer Bruder – literal translation: warm brother. German slur used for gay men. The German word for ‘gay’ is ‘schwul’, deriving from ‘schwül’, which describes hot and humid weather and explains the association of homosexuality and warmness. It was first used in the late 19th century.

[iii] Stadtschloss Berlin – Berlin City Palace, a royal and imperial palace once housing the Kings of Prussia, it was demolished by East Germany in the 1950s and is being rebuilt, with completion scheduled for 2019

[iv] Realgymnasium – equivalent of grammar school or high school

[v] Berliner Charité – Europe’s largest university clinic which was established in 1710. More than half of all German Nobel Prize winners worked at the Charité.  

[vi] “I didn’t expect you home so early.”

[vii] “Would you like some soup for lunch?”

[viii] “What are you saying again, Mr. Horan?” – “Only that you are such an excellent cook that you can’t get rid of me anymore.” – “Oh, that old soup. Now get out, I’ve got work to do.”

[ix] “Come on, Loulou! We’re running late.”

[x] “Don’t worry about it, darling.“

[xi] “Well, my handsome. Do you have a light?“

[xii] “Well, sweetie? Already a new one on the hook? Gotten rid of the last one, even though he was such a scorcher?” – “I fear he has broken my heart, my love. But you know I’m not one to drown in sadness.” … “How droll. I’d love to know where you always pick them up. The usual?”

[xiii] Quote from _War and Peace_ , by Leo Tolstoy. “We can only know that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom.”

[xiv] “The wishes you’ve got, boy.” – “You called, superintendent?” – “That I did, Weber.”…”Go fetch that (derogatory term for Muslim) from the political department. What’s his name again?” – “Malik, superintendent.”…”But I don’t know if he’s at work already.” – “Then find out.”…”Today, Weber.”

[xv] Museum Island – It’s the name of the northern half of a small island in the Spree river in Berlin Mitte. It gets its name from housing numerous internationally significant museums, including the National Gallery and the Old Museum.

[xvi] „Der Mensch ist erst wirklich tot, wenn niemand mehr an ihn denkt.“ – [A person is only truly dead once nobody thinks about them anymore.] – Bertolt Brecht


End file.
